


All Is Fine

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Zoolander (2001), Zoolander (2016), Zoolander 2 (2016)
Genre: M/M, Nonbinary Sherlock, Occasional use of words hurtful to the transsexual community, Zoolander Crossover, agender sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5853391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's on a case...undercover at an exclusive fashion show as a model. That's right... he's giving it his All.<br/>Pop stars are dying, and there's one common thread...a scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and it's our duty to unravel it, and isolate it, and...make a really nice garment out of it.<br/>Yes, I intend to "make it work". All proceeds go to the Derek Zoolander Center For Kids Who Can't Read Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too ( by which I mean I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or Derek Zoolander and this is not for profit)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It is my intention to write this fic in a trans-friendly manner. John does occasionally use inappropriate language out of total ignorance, so be warned if that is an issue for you. (He learns.) I have no idea how the character of All will be represented in this film, as it is not yet released.(Here's hoping they are an actual character, with an actual purpose besides creating an ignorant cis snicker). And if you know me, you know my crack is pretty much never just crack...so...I will address Issues at some point along the way. Will probably end up following the Zoolander 2 plotline because I'm too lazy to write one on my own. Or maybe not..if I don't like it. Enjoy!

"So, what does it say?"

"Apparently someone is murdering popular music performers. Six so far."

"Why would anyone want to kill off pop stars?"

"Aside from the fact that they are poisoning the planet with their drivel?" Sherlock plopped onto the sofa, somehow managing to look completely comfortable and to show his utter disdain simultaneously. As if he found both acts equally relaxing.

"Don't you have any guilty pleasure pop songs, Sherlock? Anything?"

Sherlock merely glared in response then said, "Any additional questions you feel compelled to ask, John?"

John took an exasperated breath. "Ok, fine. Well if you _are_ going to investigate, you will need a crash course in Top 40 music. I'll see what I can find. Someone who didn't even know who Madonna was will stick out like..."

""Well, I know her well enough now, since she became one of the victims. I still need to research a few of these performers for links between them, but as far as knowing the intimate workings of the industry itself, there is no need. The area I need to infiltrate isn't pop music; it is fashion. All the victims have uploaded a picture, a "selfie", if you will, with this rather singular countenance as their apparent final act. I believe it to be some sort of message of solidarity. Do you recognize this expression?" He extended his arm, holding his phone straight out without otherwise moving a muscle.

"Ummmm. Yeah...that's..." John shook his head. "I can't quite place it..."

"It's called Blue Steel."

"Derek...Zoolander?"

"That's the one."

"So he's a suspect?"

The question caused Sherlock enough irritation to actually turn and face John. He looked truly pained. "Derek Zoolander lacks the mental capacity to tie his own shoelaces, and that's saying a lot for a man who puts on clothes for a living. No, it's not Zoolander. But whoever did this knows him well. Not only are the victims posing in his 'signature look', but each was performing in the same city where his marketing campaign rolled out for Number Two fragrance-- even though Zoolander himself hasn't been seen in public for quite some time. I'd say that a rival in the celebrity perfume industry is a distinct possibility, except that Number Two is selling so poorly that it could hardly attract any rivals. He may have some long-time adversaries in fashion. I'll need to get close. We will head to Rome."

"And just how do you intend to get invited behind the scenes in the world of high fashion?" John's expression was one of exaggerated puzzlement-- his features scrunched up tightly.

Sherlock rose and headed to the end table to grab some magazines. "Oh, please, you look like a Shar Pei whose owner fake-threw a stick. All I need to do is be so sufficiently avant-garde that no one would dare admit they aren't fashion-forward enough to know who I am. One of the oldest cons in the book, John."

"Well, you've got the looks for it, at least."

"No."

John laughed. "Look, you arrogant git, there is no way you can play coy with me. I've seen you flirt with half the room trying to get information. You know how to use sex appeal. And now _you_ look like that Shar Pei's _owner_ when the dog manages to find a stick anyway, and brings it back."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps. But this is different. I need something _more_. Something that would mark me as so unusual that everyone would feel they should know about me, even if they didn't. Perhaps a ridiculously excessive amount of tattoos?" He sat back down and ruffled his hair, then idly thumbed through some articles before tossing them aside with a huff. Next, he grabbed John's laptop and began a frantic shuffle through advertisements in the more obscure fashion publications before returning to his previous strop.

"Oh!" He bolted upright.

"You've got a solution?"

Sherlock ignored John and headed off to their bedroom. Moments later, John heard him calling from within, "No, no, no! Not right! None of it!" He came closer to the door and was about to knock when it flung open and John fell forward, just barely regaining his balance and preventing himself from landing face-first on the floor. "Going shopping." He strode across the flat, grabbed his coat and left.

John reflexively went for his coat as well, but realised Sherlock's haste indicated he had no desire for company. He sat down in his chair and sighed, half-expecting Sherlock to pop back in and ask him to accompany him, just like he had in that Pink case years ago. But he didn't know the first thing about fashion. He'd be no help whatsoever. Still, the idea of leaving Sherlock on his own was anathema. He started brainstorming some sort of cover story to keep himself at Sherlock's side. Surely a famous model everyone has heard of would need security, right? Right? He sighed. Security would be entirely unjustifiable for a model at a show, or a post-runway party.

When Sherlock returned twenty minutes later, carrying three bags, he mumbled something indistinct and headed to the room once more.

Eventually, he emerged wearing a full-body black leotard...like a dancer? No...more like a stagehand disappearing into the background to move props unseen-- all stealthy grace. It made him seem impossibly long and lean. The top went clear up to his chin, concealing his Adam's apple, and simultaneously elongating his neck, and it skimmed his body closely all the way down, creating a stocking-like effect over his calves and feet. It didn't seem like polyester-- more like a softer, fine cotton. John wondered what it would feel like. Sherlock's skin seemed to shimmer slightly. Must be some sort of facial powder? His eyebrows were significantly lighter as well, and his hair had been pulled back with some sort of band... creating quite a bit of... face. Almost too much face to seem quite real. He didn't think such simple changes, relatively quickly made, could have had such dramatic impact, but they did. John licked his lips.

"Jesus, Sherlock."

"It's the best I can do. I don't have your athletic build, but I can do Ethereal Alien."

John looked him up and down and swallowed. The bulge at Sherlock's throat was gone, but the one in his pants was very much present. "Uhh. Speaking as someone who spent far too much of my formative years staring at an Aladdin Sane poster, I think Ethereal Alien is... a very attractive look."

"It's definitely a type. Not finished yet." He headed back, talking to John and waving an arm as he went. "Androgyny is cycling around again, given the rising popularity of the newest crop of transsexual models. I can work with that." John heard nothing but silence for a while, then Sherlock's voice flared angrily. "Something is off! Something needs to pull the focus away from the more masculine aspects of my facial features. Come look!" 

John found him at the bathroom mirror, running his hand along his jawline.

"It's the browline. It needs to be thinner," John suggested.

"I need it smoother, not just thinner." He placed his hand over his forehead and blocked his eyebrows out entirely. "Hmmmm." He headed back to the bedroom once more and returned with a small, zippered pouch.

"It..." John wasn't quite sure what to say. Sherlock had already waxed off a considerable amount of hair and started removing even more with long strips, uttering a long string of curses for the first time in John's presence. He felt the move took Sherlock from absolutely gorgeous to... odd. Overdone. A bit shocking, maybe.

John went off to the kitchen and returned with a makeshift ice pack-- a repurposed a bag of frozen peas that had been wedged between Mrs Hudson's leftover steak and kidney pie and....something. Sherlock waved it off at first, but later accepted it when the pain didn't abate quickly enough.

"I miss the days where you could just, you know, look in your pants and...see what makes it move?"

Sherlock repeated John's statement in a low voice. It was sexy as hell, even though it contained more than a bit of contempt. " _See. What makes it. Move._ "

"Yeah. Men. Women. Both. For some people, neither. But this identity stuff...I have to admit I still find it confusing. I try to be respectful, of course, but..." He trailed off, lost in trying to formulate his thoughts. "There are definite differences between male brains and female brains."

"And there were once thought to be differences between African brains and European brains. Bias of the observer."

"Way to knock it all down with a sentence, Sherlock. That wasn't my point. My point is, there _could_ be neurological differences, based on hormonal influence. And it could be that a brain continues to develop along one specific pathway and the body another. It would explain why someone feels they are the wrong gender." 

"Gender is as much of a myth as race. We are far more alike than different. The simple fact is people like rules. They like social constructs. Even when those rules lack a factual basis." 

John paused. "Is this...neutral stance... just you testing out your character, or do you have... a neutral stance?"

"Social constructs are boring."

"Social constructs define our world."

"Social constructs define our world in boring ways."

"Ok, but, are you saying you're..."

Sherlock looked right at him, and John found he had completely lost track of his words-- as if his mind had been wiped clean. It must have been the lack of brows that made Sherlock's face seem so placid, so oddly unreadable...but somehow this mysterious, somewhat softer-seeming gaze still managed to be deep-- even deeper than usual. "Your eyes are stunning like that. They...they just... I..." 

John kissed him. It was the kind of kiss he usually gave Sherlock when he was absolutely amazed by him. When he was struck by the fact that there was no one else like him on earth. It sometimes just took his breath away. Soft and tentative-- as if... well, despite their years together, it still didn't seem quite real sometimes. That this man was his. John backed away slowly, smiling. Now wasn't the time for romance, and besides, he really did want to see this transformation.

Sherlock was a expert at makeup; he could make a face look distorted and unrecognizable. John had even been fooled once--briefly. Of course, that time he had not only contoured his nose expertly, creating an entirely different profile that looked as if the bridge had been broken repeatedly, but he had popped in colored contacts. It was his lips that had given him away. Sherlock admitted he probably hadn't given his own lips nearly as much though as John did. John had waxed poetic about them and then Sherlock had put them to exceptionally good use.

Apparently, he was just as good at enhancing features as he was at disfiguring them. By the time he had settled on a style of eye lining and applied a light blush, John found him absolutely captivating. Not in the way Sherlock always was. It was new, somehow. Like another aspect of him was showing through. Him, of course. But...not him. 

When he removed a long, black wig from the bag and meticulously adjusted the hair to lay flat and even, he smiled. "I've never had straight hair," he said simply. "I like it."

"Having fun playing dress up?"

He dropped his smile and turned away from John, back toward the mirror, and began adjusting his clothing, adding a flowing white scarf and adjusting it to drape more loosely across his chest. 

"I need a name. A pretentious one."

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's smile returned, eyes sparkling, though it was short-lived. "It needs to be completely neutral, but memorable. Most non gender-specific ones are monosyllabic nicknames, and are rather plain. Sam. Chris. Jo. I need neutral, but exotic. A true star has a unique name in these times. A single name. One everyone will know."

"Is this why you chose Sherlock over William? Something everyone would remember?"

"No. Actually, I wanted to distinguish myself from another William in the family. Long story. Not worth telling. Back to this. Focus!" he snapped. "I could use one with a meaning. But a bit, overblown. If it's grand enough, I am far less likely to be questioned about it. 'Transcendence'?"

John made a face. "Complicated concept you are going for here. An otherworldly hermaphrodite."

Sherlock frowned, but then seemed to have some sort of renewed optimism, a joyful revelation. "Of course! A complicated concept needs a simple name. A mythological animal name, like Phoenix-- unique and exotic. Too formal?"

John responded, even though Sherlock didn't seem to be directing the question at him so much as at himself. "You'd sound like a stripper."

"Uno? No... subconsciously gendered. One? A unisex perfume. Could work, but it's associated with Calvin Klein, which might cause issues. I need it to embrace everything along a continuum, to be all-encompassing..."

"All?"

"All." He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. "All. Yes. That is what I want. All is....all I need."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I have now seen the film, which has surprisingly little ( or perhaps, unsuprisingly little) usable plot. I enjoyed it. The giggling scene, which annoyed me, never appeared in the film. I tried to be screen-accurate, but that is difficult in a theater ;)
> 
> Oh..and he does, in fact, say KKK instead of AKA ;)...not a typo.

Lestrade wasn't in a good mood.

One of the six victims had been killed whilst touring in London, and another was a long-term resident. He didn't relish high-profile cases like these. Celebrities held no particular glamour for him, and the investigative work was often demanding and very, very complicated. For one thing, you didn't just call their friends down to the station for interviews-- you had to go to their turf. Hence the jetting off to New York, followed by a turnaround and he was off to Rome. Maybe he could turn it into a bit of holiday on his last day there? Even that prospect hadn't cheered him. So when he walked into The Gaga-- the hotel itself a cross between a recycling dream and a hoarding nightmare-- he was numb to its excesses. He simply asked which room Derek Zoolander was in. He was somewhat surprised to find the front desk attendant advise him that the room was a shared one... and that a group of six were already up there... and another group of six were on the way up...and perhaps he might want to meet Mr Zoolander in the lobby bar? He had no idea what was going on up there, but he sighed and took the hint.

 

Zoolander had seemed apprehensive, and ill-at-ease. Turned out he had been merely confused when Lestrade apologised for having missed him at his flat in-- he glanced at his notes and surprised himself by reading off 'Far North New Jersey'-- and had to disturb him the day of his fashion show. He didn't feel sorry at all, but it seemed to make these fashion stars more comfortable when he claimed he was. This time it wasn't helping, though. He corrected himself with "apartment"-- the international aspect of the case had been linguistically frustrating-- but he wasn't expecting Zoolander to look even more distraught and confess he was glad to have met the detective here because his place was, in fact, 'actually kind of bumpy'.

"Is this 75 questions?" Zoolander asked. "Because Vogue already asked me those. It's on YouTube." He pulled out his phone and started playing a video clip-- the two of them watching it on his remarkably tiny phone screen together. Lestrade was surprised a phone that old and small even got wifi. He asked Zoolander some routine questions, and the model immediately spilled out a confession for being responsible for the death of his wife, that his son had been removed from his care by Child Protective Services, that he had been trying to stage a comeback to be known as a fashion force again instead of "just Derek Zoolander: KKK 'Bad Parent' " ...and did he know how to make spaghetti soft?

As he left the hotel lobby, Lestrade shook his head. There was no way Sherlock could spend more than five minutes with this man without wanting to throttle him for the benefit of all mankind. Perhaps that was even a generous estimate. He didn't envy the poor berk. Of course, his saving grace would probably be not even realising Sherlock was eviscerating him until it was all over. 

Sherlock often put himself in the place of suspected criminals and adjusted for their strengths and weaknesses in order to see what actions they would take next. The cleverer the suspect, the less mental gymnastics required to solve the case. He had taken a date to see Lewis Black not so long ago, and all he could think about now was a bit from his stand-up routine-- how getting into the mind of Derek Zoolander probably wasn't even possible without an instant aneurysm.

Lestrade took a sip of the hotel's free coffee, which the man wearing a t-shirt with something about ringing up Billy Zane on it had possibly encouraged him to try and possibly warned him away from, he was still trying to determine which. He had called it the absolute foulest stuff, just about the worst thing ever, and that he loved it and wished he could buy a case. The coffee was hot and black and bitter and reminded him of Twin Peaks. He had a sudden craving for cherry pie.


	3. Chapter 3

"What the hell?"

John headed into the kitchen for the morning paper and breakfast, only to find Sherlock wobbling around the kitchen in heels. His dressing gown hung loosely over a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and his hair and face were back to normal. As normal as it could be with no eyebrows. John thought he saw a sweep of liner at the corners of his eyes. It looked to be recently applied.

"I asked Molly first. She had absolutely no practical tips on how to maintain balance. She doesn't even _own_ anything higher than three inches. I thought that was ridiculous, as she is only five foot four and frequently tries to appear taller-- and these would certainly solve that problem-- but, now I'm finding they are not well-suited to anyone wishing to actually take steps. If I wear them all day, every day, until the show, perhaps I can regain a bit of my natural grace. These are chunky heels. I don't think a stiletto is necessary for runway work, but I do need to be able to do a high wedge. And when we go out, I would need to wear a much thinner heel. Have you decided how you will accompany me yet?"

John burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"I'd been sulking all of yesterday thinking you didn't want me to join you, since you hadn't told me what part I'm supposed to play in this. And here you are, assuming I have been planning a way to join you all this time."

"Well, haven't you?"

"That's what's so funny. Yes. Yes, of course I have." John smiled. "I figure anyone that big would need a personal assistant. You shouldn't be expected to do simple things yourself, now, should you?"

"Certainly not."

"So all I need to do is research a bit about the industry."

"Do be a bit more thorough than you were about the Chinese pottery."

"Hey! You only gave me a few hours for that! I've already queued up a few videos on fashion and it has behind the scenes prep for a show. I've also got Geena Rocero's Ted Talk. I had no idea there were so many...well, let's say I found out that there was a woman on a Clairol box back in the 70s who was actually a ma-- who was born ma--"

"Who was assigned male at birth." Sherlock smiled at John's attempt at a mid-sentence correction. "While you work on your vocabulary, you should take 'hermaphrodite' out of rotation. It's highly offensive, as well as scientifically specious and clinically problematic. A hermaphrodite would possess both sexual organs, not just have secondary sexual characteristics associated with both the male and female sex... and furthermore, one born with this physicality would correctly be termed 'intersex'. Unless you are referring specifically to the offspring of Hermes and Aphrodite."

"Then I suppose I owe All an apology."

"Yes. You do."

"I shall be sure to tell her when I see her." John picked up the paper and began to read.

Sherlock placed a freshly-made omelette in front of him and stood there for a moment, watching. John sensed he was waiting for something, and looked up just as Sherlock turned away and headed to the kitchen to heat up the kettle.

"And it's 'them'. All uses a singular they," he announced, quietly, to the looseleaf tea.

 

****

Sherlock was already removing his sunglasses before the security official had even vocalised the request, but he still looked at Sherlock's passport, and back at him again, and then back at the identification in a silent loop. John read Sherlock's thoughts, to the point where he swore he could almost _hear_ him say "Oh, for heaven's sake!" under his breath. But he was doing no such thing. He merely looked calmly at the agent and said, softly, "They were burnt off during a chemical experiment. Drawing them on looked even worse than leaving it be." The official finally nodded, and they moved on to the baggage checkpoint. 

Sherlock grimaced, and placed a quick wager with John about how long it would take for Mycroft to check up on him now. He was banking on his brother being far too busy with the American Primaries and, as the current state of his face was clearly a minor issue, that he would take at least a day's time. John thought it would be far less. 

John was right. The text came in shortly after they boarded.

_A chemical burn would be far from the perfectly precise depilatory, brother mine. Your lashes remain quite unscathed._

_Perhaps I just fancied a new look._

_Ah. Is it all the rage on the runways of Milan?_

_It will be shortly. I have work to do, Mycroft. Go watch your friends yell at each other in some cornfield in Iowa._

Sherlock placed his phone back in his jacket pocket, removed his glasses again and leaned against the aeroplane window, closing his eyes. He was so motionless, John was convinced he was drifting to sleep. 

Even though they shared a bed now, John generally fell asleep first. Sherlock was usually beside him when he awoke, except for the times he was absorbed in a case. Their bed was not, Sherlock had said, conducive to thinking. John had taken it as a tremendous compliment.

It was abhorrent for Sherlock to theorise before the facts, but even so, he had been up long into the night for the past few days. When the unbroken military habit of early morning rising found him awake at some ungodly hour yesterday, John had found Sherlock crashed on the sofa for the second night in a row. 

As John turned to silently gaze at the slumped over figure on his right, far too tall for the cramped airline seat, he found himself hoping Sherlock was just catching up on lost sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Once in Rome, they had little trouble finding out where the fashion show would be-- it was an abandoned construction site of some type. Piles of dirt. Someone had quipped it was once a legitimate toxic waste dump, and John wasn't entirely sure they had been joking. He supposed it was atmospheric to the younger set, if it didn't kill them in twenty years. Of course, they'd likely want to die young anyway, so it was a fair trade. 

John had even less trouble yelling at the right people to gain an audience with the stage director. He walked up waving a few sheets of paper wildly (if anyone had looked closely, they would have seen they were flyers from the coffeeshop near their hotel, advertising their Friday night poetry slam).

"We authorize the change for All to be the final runway model instead of the opener, you take us off the schedule, and then you neglect to put us back on! Why...we aren't even on this list at all now! It's a damn good thing I checked." John was thoroughly enjoying himself-- ready to call everyone in sight an idiot while Sherlock placidly looked on-- but he didn't want to overdo it. He changed tactics, ever so slightly. "Now, I know this is a rare appearance, and we don't do many of these types of shows ever since Kandahar, and declined the invitation to the London show, but...let's do try to get it right if you want there to be another time, capiche? A little effort, please?" The stage director paled and John accepted his apology with irritated grace.

Mission accomplished, Sherlock gestured for John to head backstage with him. It was less chaotic than John had expected, and he felt badly about having accused the assistant of incompetence when clearly he was doing a fantastic job. The models each had their own separate dressing area and a choice of coordinated clothing. Someone had rushed to provide All with four sets of clothes...one looked decidedly masculine...suits, mostly. Another had a series of very high quality dresses, which looked to be primarily silks. A third was what he would refer to as unisex clothing. And the fourth-- a sort of Victoria's Secret Dark Angel Number made entirely out of leather. John eyed them all. Seeing Sherlock as All on the catwalk wearing the classic suits he normally favored had a tremendous appeal. So did seeing him in a full length dress, which reminded him of the alternate cover of The Man Who Sold the World he had saved up for in his youth. Of course, the neutral clothes might be most appropriate. Though high-quality fabrics, they seemed to be not as tailored as the other, more gender-specific clothing, and John was hoping for something that might show off Sherlock's body to better effect. He stared at the 'Angel' one for an inordinately long time. It even had a whip as an accessory. He shook himself out of it. They were on a case.

Sherlock glanced over at the practically obscene outfit, though he still would have remained adequately covered in it, and then removed a shawl made out of a white fleece designed to resemble fur from the rack. "It's actually cotton, John. Feel it." Sherlock held it out and John ran his hand over it. It was soft as any synthetic material. "The tensile strength is weaker." He took off his shirt and slipped the wrap over his shoulders. 

Don Atari, rising star of the fashion world, stopped by, just to expound upon how much of a creative genius All was, and led them both over to Derek and Hansel for a rather grand introduction, complete with stepping through a divided curtain. "Hey, I want to introduce you all to my muse ," he waved his arm in a flourish, "and basically, like, the biggest supermodel in the whole world right now...this is All." John tried to hide how amusing he found it that Atari certainly had never seen his 'muse' before that very moment. 

He didn't even need to play a role-- it was entirely accurate and very familiar, being the assistant to the greatest person the world would ever know. The two male models, household names some years back, also seemed to view the proclamation as truth. When neither seemed to know All, John could have sworn he saw a touch of amusement on Sherlock's face. They were not sharp enough to know to play along. Fortunately, they also accepted Atari's hurled insults of their having been hopelessly behind the times. They both had quietly nodded with such resignation that John was certain it wasn't the first time they had heard it that day, nor would it be the last.

Zoolander asked, "Are you, like, a male model of a female model?" Sherlock rattled off a brief summary about disregarding any need for a gender binary, and then simply stated, "All... is all... to all" as he leaned in to stroke Zoolander's cheek. John might have been jealous at the prolonged eye contact and actual... touch... had he not recognized that Sherlock's intense stare was simply his way of gathering ridiculous amounts of information on the model. Sherlock now knew all there was to know, without having asked a single question. "All is done here," he announced, and strode out. John beamed.

John stuck close by Sherlock's side, not wanting to even so much as head to the loo, or to try and make some sort of meal out of the veg tray. He didn't think he was in danger as such, but, one couldn't be too careful. On the way back to his dressing area, Sherlock quietly told John, "Zoolander's son is being held hostage. I strongly suspect the boarding school is a front. And Hansel is a father-to-be-- of at least...six." Sherlock stripped down to his underwear, carefully folding what he had been wearing and hanging it back on the rack, as he carefully considered what new clothing to remove from it for the show itself. John never thought of Sherlock's pants as being particularly unisex before, but in this context, they suddenly were. A smaller cut, almost like what a swimmer might wear. No fly. He watched them slide off his hips and onto the floor as he reached for the Angel outfit.

***  
He wasn't entirely sure what he was witnessing. It was surreal and vaguely erotic, but, above all, there was this prevailing sense of irony-- and John was never quite sure if he was getting it. As Zoolander and Hansel were shot out of what appeared to be coffins, wearing bright red jumpsuits that read 'old' and 'lame', he couldn't help but feel off-balance. Then Sherlock emerged, like some sort of demon, from behind the two of them, and lashed at them with the whip. Sherlock was completely in character, but his "victims" seemed terribly confused. John didn't think anyone had let them in on the act... but if questioned, he would have reluctantly admitted that his focus was far more on Sherlock. _Sherlock_ certainly knew the two men weren't aware the joke was on them, judging by his removal of himself from the scene-- rapidly disappearing up into the rafters of the improvised stage after mere seconds. Next, something was dumped onto them. John could swear it smelt vaguely of stewed prunes. 

As he headed backstage, his head was spinning. What was real? What was ironic? Had it been a strange version of satire? Of art? Was there anything real behind any of it? Nearing the changing area, he could hear Sherlock lecturing in his head: _Well of course it wasn't the real me in any aspect! I wear Spencer Hart, and I don't remove my eyebrows, or apply eyeliner and blush unless I'm playing a character who would do such things. This-- this suit, this shirt, these trousers-- this is how I want to look. That was just me playing a part. Any great actor will tell you the secret to playing a part is finding pathways to connect it with your own, authentic self. Enough to fool your audience into thinking that the character is three-dimensional-- is real. Honestly, John. You should know better._

But still...watching All descend on the stage, John couldn't help but see _Sherlock_. He wasn't meant to, he knew. 

Now that the performance was over, Sherlock would kick off his heels, and sigh, and they'd head back to the hotel...but he had stayed in character longer than was strictly necessary. Not much longer. But enough to have demonstrated he had been perfectly at ease. 

John thought about it. A lot.


	5. Chapter 5

It was still early in the evening, but John couldn't decide if he was more hungry or tired. He opted to head to the lobby to scrounge up some vending machine food. Finding a coffee machine and a fruit basket with apples and bananas, he took one of each and shoved them under his armpit. He headed back, balancing two coffees in his hands, and gripped one styrofoam cup with his teeth while he opened the door.

Sherlock glanced up at the offering and shook his head. He had taken a compact mirror over to what served as an all-purpose endtable, and was occupying himself with wiping off bits of foundation.

"I do still owe All an apology." John put the coffees down on the table and removed the fruit, eyeing them dubiously, and smiled.

Sherlock smirked. "All isn't real, John."

"Hear me out. I try to be respectful, but I just... never really gave this issue much thought, you see. I've never considered myself anything but male. My sexuality, yeah, that I thought about constantly. Until I sorted it all out. Bisexual male. Nothing too difficult, really. Once I really looked at it. Gave myself permission. But gender is different. I never really had the need to... think about...um..."

"John?"

"But do you want to...uh, want her...to--"

"Them. Not her."

"Them. Okay. So, do you want them to be..." How did things suddenly get so jumbled? "I-- do you, _prefer_ being a woman, Sherlock? Because...well...because even though I think I'd prefer it if you had a smidge more hair right here--" John stepped over and touched his face lightly, right where he had just removed some of the foundation from his browline, "just for aesthetic reasons, mind you-- I think that you are a beautiful woman. And." John paused and smiled. "You know I've loved women. And I've loved men. And will continue to love you as either."

Sherlock stopped removing his make-up and eyed John more deliberately as he continued his poor attempt at pushing the conversation forward with a bit of a stammer. "If... this is the way you want to be out in the world... if this is the face you want to show-- Or even if it's just in private. Even if it's just to me. Or, just, sometimes. I'm... I'm fine with it. You could-- " John blushed, "wear some sort of lingerie, to be more feminine. And if you do want to... change... anything... it can be done. If you don't want to, then don't. I'm... I wouldn't mind."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the outburst of loving support, awkward though it was, wash over him for just a moment, sensing he would end up watching it fade away soon enough. 

His mouth was tight, but his eyes were soft when he opened then again. "John. No. I don't want to appear any different than how you see me now. No modifications are required or desired. Also, I do not prefer dresses, nor full body tanks. And heels are simply painful. Apart from the feel of a good, emotively dramatic coat for a bit of swirling flair, I can't say I want anything which would fall under what the general population categorizes as 'feminine'. I was, however, presented with an opportunity to explore that side of myself. And I felt no less awkward...no less me. It was, in fact, very enjoyable to challenge expectations and have the complete freedom to do so. But what I wear, how I present myself, isn't meant to have any deeper meaning than what is most practical."

Sherlock tossed a cotton round, pale pink with removed foundation, aside. "I carefully crafted my persona as one that is authoritative and intimidating without being completely unapproachable. It would be significantly more difficult to do so as a woman, though I suppose putting some idiots in their place would be entertaining. So, to say I don't care at all about gender is perhaps inaccurate. I'll use it when it benefits me. It's only practical to do so, But as far as it relates to my own personal identity, I find it pointless. I have the body I have. Fortunately, you find it attractive. It provides the sensations it provides, and beyond that, I don't feel any particular attachment to its external form. It's not dysphoria so much as... apathy?" Sherlock reached for the laptop, but stopped for a moment. "In as much as we are one and the same... All accepts your apology. Now, I have some research to do."

"I do, too."

John felt Sherlock's eyes on him as he opened his laptop up and typed. He was determined to understand this better. He wondered, if it was all as casual as Sherlock made it sound, why had he never brought it up before?

After they had sat in the room, more or less ignoring each other, John asked a question as casually as he could muster.

"So, you are...neutrois?"

"I am _what_?"

"Ummm..." Perhaps the research he had been doing might prove to be counterproductive. He stumbled his way through an explanation. "It means wanting to be neutral-gendered. Like, your gender should be more...like you wish you had only non-gendered parts? So you can't tell. Like an androgyne would be both, and a neutrois would be neither."

"John, you are trying entirely too hard. Clearly you've done your research, but, labels are not necessary. Not only are labels not necessary, I dislike the very concept of labels-- as if that dislike were a kind of label in and of itself. My sexuality is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and so is my gender. I have a decided interest in sexual relations with John Hamish Watson. You can call me whatever you want to. And the fact that you are calling me anything at all likely means whatever the name is, it is wrong."

"I see you as a male. Or, at least, I _did_. Until I literally saw you as a ...well more as a woman than ever before, I guess?"

"You never saw anything feminine in me before now?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"I see. Well, what was masculine?"

John looked puzzled by the question. "You just.. _were_. I mean, that's what I saw."

"Interesting."

"Are you saying you aren't? A man?"

"I'm saying I don't associate anything I do with a gender characteristic."

"Well... maybe when you plop down on the couch and sulk... it's a bit more like..."

"Sulking is a feminine trait, John?"

"No. No. That's not what I'm saying. It's just... I... I think...you.... it _is_ what I'm saying, isn't it?" John looked quite tired.

"Sounds like it to me." 

"Wonderful. I just got over finding out exactly how inappropriate I've been-- throwing around what are essentially slurs, using improper pronouns, and the like-- and now I can add good old-fashioned sexism to the list. That's just great."

"Are violinists female-gendered?"

"Sherlock!"

"Just asking. I mean, since we are assigning personality traits to genitalia--"

"Okay, fine. Point made. I'm garbage. I'm sexist garbage. Are we done here?"

"Yes, let's stop discussing this."

"Now wait a minute... I didn't mean we should drop the whole topic!"

Sherlock huffed. "I seemed male to you because I have male body parts. So you used sex to figure out gender, and everything I did was coded 'male'. If a woman did the exact same things, would she be coded male as well? Or do women have significantly more gender freedom in your mind, Doctor Watson?"

John bristled at the implied insult even though he couldn't figure out why it was one. _Oh. That's right, I am The Establishment compared to his Bohemian-Police-Officer-That-Isn't-Really-A-Police-Officer._ "Maybe they do? I don't make the rules."

"Of course not. You merely blindly follow them."

"Don't you think that's a bit unfair? I didn't invent the concept of gender, and I said I would be perfectly fine with you-- no matter what yours is-- and here you are, berating me for being honest enough to say I don't mind how you define yourself so long as I can still go to bed with you at the end of the day."

"How positively--"

"Before you fucking say 'how noble of you', stop and think, won't you?" John forced himself to sit down. "Okay. So gender isn't a part of your life. I think I'm getting that now. And I think I'm getting that you resent that such a thing even exists. I happen to like being a man. It...feels right to me, okay? And not because I'm blindly following someone else's life script. It's how I bloody well feel! And you feel like...well you don't _feel_ like anything and you _think_ like you are above this sort of petty shit, right? That you are in some sort of moral high ground for not thinking this stuff matters. Kinda like being racially colourblind. All the history, all the ways people treat men and women differently, have different expectations of boys and girls... all of that is to be thrown out the window? It's not just how you see yourself, Sherlock. As you said, it's how others see you, too."

"And how do others see me, John? I've been called _so many things,_ and I'm only counting the ones hurled at me in your presence. How many of them are gender-related and how many would apply to any sociopathic-junkie-freak-arsehole?" 

"Why are we doing this?" 

"Because you were so gracious as to tell me you don't give a fuck about my messed up self. That it's all fine. Just like in Angelo's. Remember? You asked if I had a girlfriend, and I said it wasn't my area. Then you asked if I had a boyfriend, _which was fine, by the way_. As if I required your assurance that my sexuality is acceptable. This is no different." 

"For Christ's sake, of course I remember! And I also said it's _all_ fine. Meaning whatever you thought about it, whatever you did, it was _fine_. I wasn't saying you needed my approval...I was saying I was on the same page as you. In case, you know, you thought I wasn't. In case you thought that it did matter to me. If you weren't interested, I would have taken whatever I could get. Which, I thought, might not be more than a flatmate, considering how badly the conversation was going. A lack of gender doesn't matter to me either. How you express it, or don't express it...doesn't matter. _You_ matter. Have you got something nasty to say in response to that? Go on then." 

Sherlock just glared in response. The case hadn't been going well, that was for sure. And it was probably exhausting, working a disguise for such long periods of time. Especially a disguise like this. Although he seemed comfortable as All, it was certainly physically demanding. Not counting the heels, there were issues of breath control, vocal changes ( his voice was somehow smoother). There were also the occasional snickers, which he knew Sherlock clearly heard. And that whole hotdog or bun thing, that was just plain rude, even though Hansel claimed he understood the whole non-binary concept. And Sherlock, being actually gender-atypical himself, would probably... 

_Yeah._

The silence grew. 

"You know agender and transgender are considered part of the same category--" 

"John, the logic behind it couldn't be any less congruent. A transgendered person believes their designation at birth--based on observation of their physical form-- is incorrect and needs to be transformed to match their sense of true self. For an agendered person, this would be a pointless task, at best. For one, gender alignment makes all the difference in the world. For the other, it is a useless and spurious waste of time and energy." 

"Maybe. I'm just saying that they probably have quite a bit in common in terms of how they feel versus how they are perceived by others. A basic lack of understanding from the rest of the world. Ignorance-- even from those who love them." John looked at him pointedly, his face tinged with regret. 

"John, I don't have time for this. Mugatu has broken out of prison, and Zoolander's son is missing. That the two incidences are linked is beyond obvious. Fashion Interpol texted me while you were procuring that sorry excuse for dinner with the information that it is not 'Blue Steel', but rather 'Aqua Vita'. I advised them to check into the mythology of the Fountain of Youth, given its literal connection to the Water of Life. In addition, Alexanya Atoz seems rather obsessed with the concept, given her readily apparent multiple facelifts and her new product line, Youth Milk." Sherlock pronounced it, imitating Atoz's rather thick accent, as ' Yowth Meelk'. 

Sherlock made a click and a full length commercial began to play where Atoz herself appeared, turning slowly and saying, 'Velcome... to de House of Atoz booty labiatory....' Sherlock hit pause quite quickly and continued to speak. "Lestrade has also sent me transcripts of both Hansel's and Zoolander's mobile transmissions. Apparently this one is some sort of code... 'ghosts in the machine', 'spirits in the material world', 'message in a bottle'...I just need--" 

"Sting?!" 

"I don't see how another sting operation could be of much assistance, I--" 

"No. No. The music performer. Gordon Sumner. Sting is... his stage name." 

"Oh. And these are references to songs of his? So, either he is under threat, or he knows more about this organization. But not to send the police... well, that strongly implies the later. Hansel claimed to admire Sting in a recent interview with Fashion Fast Forward. We need to pay him a visit. Why would Sting seek him out directly, though?" Sherlock looked through articles on the performer. "These performers are only marginally more talented and intelligent than male models. They must feel a sort of kinship with-- oh." 

"Oh?" 

"That's it!" Sherlock lept up and headed out of the hotel room yelling, "Ears! Ears, John!" while John ran to catch up. 

As he met up with him at the elevator, Sherlock was still talking, as if he had been doing so the entire time. "...But more importantly, the building contractor hired to supervise the faulty construction of--," Sherlock suddenly slowed and he spoke the name extremely carefully, as if holding it at arm's length, "The Derek Zoolander Center For Kids Who Can't Read Good And Who Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too-- was a certain Jacob Moogburg. That's Mogutu. He is a dangerous man, out for revenge, and if he is claiming to have some sort of access to a substance which brings eternal youth, he will have all of the fashion industry drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Perhaps even all of them within in a single room. The consequences are dire. You can apologize for being an idiot later, John. We have a child, as well as the pioneers of an industry, to save." 

"Where are we going? To the police? And you do realise you are still in a ratty T-shirt and pajama bottoms and house slippers?" 

Sherlock handed John his mobile. "Fine. I'll get properly dressed. Text Interpol and tell them to send their best armed agent to wherever the next major fashion event is scheduled. It will be at a dramatic location, and there will be a tunnel, a passage--some way of getting underground. They will most certainly hold some sort of ridiculously campy ceremony, filled with drama and pageantry and blood and silks!" 

"How do you know that there will--" 

"They are fashion designers, John!" He turned and headed back down the hallway. 

"And All can get us in there?" John texted as he followed him. 

"I'm not sure. The entrance will be guarded. We might not be able to make it to the staging area, but we shall certainly endeavor to." 

Back in the room, Sherlock checked his email again and announced, "Valentina Valencia is on the case. Former swimsuit model. She's good." 

The phone whooshed as replies started coming in, and John read them to Sherlock. "It says 'Tonight. Caracalla." 

Sherlock frowned. "I wasn't anticipating another show later tonight. We have no time to lose! On the grounds of an ancient bathhouse. Tell them they need to look for any celebrities walking _away_ from the red carpet and follow them to the other entrance. If it is too heavily guarded, there should be some secret escape route leading out the back. All buildings for both illicit and overt sexual activities had a quick exit in case there was an unwelcome visitor...someone's other lover, for example. We can use it to find our way in." 

John's current clothing was sufficient, but Sherlock, with no access to what had been on the racks, had to improvise something for the occasion. He looped his scarf behind his neck and criss-crossed it in front of his chest, before securing the ends against his back in a low knot. Next, he put on his standard suit trousers, pushed low on his hips so the cuffs cascaded onto the tops of his shoes. He still had his practice heels, and hoped he could run sufficiently in them, if need be. Ignoring John's half-hearted protests, Sherlock grabbed an oatmeal cable-knit jumper, pulled the arms inside out and tied them together, making a rather efficient, if not odd-looking, bag into which he placed his regular shoes. He planned on discarding his footwear in exchange for something far more practical once he was out of the line of sight. Odds were good they would chase or be chased tonight. 

Looking in the mirror, he wasn't pleased with how the bulk of the scarf lay across his body. The effect was clumsy. He tossed it aside and began rummaging around the hotel room, searching for anything that could be fashioned into a dress. Eventually he settled on a pillowcase. Ripping the seam on top as well as both sides, he slipped it over himself. It looked... like he was wearing a pillowcase. That somehow didn't seem at all unreasonable. He took some sparkling eyeshadow in different colours and smeared it across the front in a blurry set of fingerprints. All John could seem to notice was Sherlock's legs... smooth and impossibly long beneath the short makeshift 'dress'. 

"Won't you...be cold?" John said weakly. 

Sherlock threw his suit jacket on top of the ensemble. "Well, come on! I can do the makeup in the cab." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer chaoter to make up for the shorter ones ;)  
> BTW...the videos for Youth Milk, Number Two, and the Vogue interview are all actually available on YouTube for your viewing pleasure.  
> Always happy to discuss the issues I raise in fic in my comments. Talk to me!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok..I know a lot of readers haven't seen Zoolander 2 yet, but, I just want to be perfectly clear that some of the weirder shit that goes down in this story is *from the actual movie*. And I actually cut out some of it, because I thought it might be a bit *too* strange. ( Hansel? Is in a relationship with his Orgy...and all six, including those who are biologically male-- and I say this confidently because there are cameos where the actors play themselves--are pregnant. That's right. A *Hollywood film* has M-Preg and I consider it too bizarre for my *fanfiction*)

The venue was elaborate and very impressive and, sure enough, there was a large neon globe advertising the event which stood in stark contrast to the surrounding ancient walls. John walked a full pace behind Sherlock, as he was to be portraying an assistant, not an equal. They walked to the red carpet and stood at the edge, while Sherlock surveyed the crowd. A plain, black car pulled over further up the roadway, several hundred feet past the red carpet entrance, and Sherlock headed away from the throng of people watching stars step down from their limousines. 

Sherlock spotted Hansel wandering around searching for another entrance. He sighed. "John. We need to stop him before he draws undue attention to himself. He might as well be walking up to the doorman and asking if he knows where the secret ritual is taking place tonight."

As if on cue, Hansel came around to the front and was headed toward the security personel, who were making an elaborate show of checking names on their entry list and nodding as they passed through the front entrance. He got as far as saying "Excuse me..." before John rushed over and gave him a full embrace. 

"Hansel! How wonderful to see you! So have you come up with any good baby names yet?"

John took advantage of Hansel's stunned silence to pull him away from the carpet toward the area on the other side of the paved path, where Sherlock was busy peering nonchalantly into the car's tinted windows via his compact. He snapped it closed as they approached and walked up to meet them.

His voice was no longer softened. "Valencia Valentine says you've been doing reconnaissance. Tell me what you know."

Hansel stammered.

"Oh for heaven's sake-- Look, I'm a consulting detecting working with Fashion Interpol and I know Justin Bieber was gunned down in front of Gordon Sumner's--"

"Sting's," John corrected.

"--Sting's manor house. And I know he sent you coded messages and you went to see him. What I don't know is what he said, so make it quick please, because we don't have much time to find the entrance _without_ alerting the guards, thank you very much, and save Derek Zoolander's son, and whoever else is stupid enough to fall into the trap, which I suspect will be a relatively larger number of people, given the pool from which he is drawing his followers. So. I will ask again. What did he tell you?"

"He... he said that I was his---"

"That you were his son. Yes, yes, obviously. Cartilage of the outer ear. Quite distinctive. Not about _that._ About the Aqua Vitae. The Water of Life. The Fountain--"

"The Fountain of Youth! Yes, he said there was a Fountain of Youth and the legend was true, and that performers all over the world were sworn to protect the Chosen. The Descendant of Steve."

"Steve?" For the first time, Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Adam, and Eve, and Steve. The first male model. He had powers beyond anything we could ever dream of. And his descendants have it too. And his descendant is Derek Zoolander. Um. And also Derek Zoolander. The other Derek Zoolander. Derek Zoolanders. Dereks Zoolander?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And their blood is 'magical', correct?"

"How did you..."

"Yes, yes, a fine fairy tale to draw the fashion world all to one location so the man scorned by it and left to rot in prison can extract his revenge. Everyone wants Eternal Youth and once both Zoolanders are dead, Mugatu can murder everyone else and escape. Simple, but a more complicated plan is hardly necessary with this lot. So. Have you checked the rear entrance? No, of course not." He started to text Valentine. 

As he was texting, Hansel looked him over, reassuring himself that this was, in fact, the same person he had met earlier in the day. John glared at him, and he immediately backed off. "I don't think your Orgy would appreciate your ogling," Sherlock said without even glancing up from his mobile. "They have already found the way in. Thank god someone has a modicum of competency. All right. Hansel will go in and meet up with them. John and I will follow." He kicked off his heels and left them on the paved stone, pausing to rub his arches before putting on his regular shoes."What are you waiting for? Go!" Hansel took off at a sprint.

Sherlock turned back to John. "Valentine wants to bring them down herself, but we will serve as backup. Something will most certainly go wrong with those two on the case. Unfortunately, we are unarmed. We will watch and wait."

They headed to the back of the baths and Sherlock found the secret passageway easily enough. They headed down a corridor and stopped well short of the central chamber. Mugatu was busy explaining how he would rip the heart out of the Descendants of Steve and make an elixir.

"Legend says he once stopped a Chinese Throwing Star with a look," John said in a hushed tone.

"Hmmm. Yes. And monkeys might fly out my butt."

"Well, I see you were actually paying attention to Wayne's World. I never would have thought you'd go for a 20-year-old movie with grade school humour."

"It seemed an appropriate reference."

They heard bright laughter and leaned forward around the protective corner to observe. Mugatu laughed again and explained to the crowd of influential models and designers exactly what Sherlock had predicted. The whole story was a fraud. There was no Steve. It was an oh so clever ruse to gather the leaders of the industry together and dispose of them. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, though he secretly worried about his suit supply with no new designers available.

"So I take it you don't believe the witnesses?"

"Oh, I'm sure that is precisely what they believed they saw."

"Baskerville?"

"There are other explanations besides hallucinatory gas, but, for all intents and purposes, yes. See! He's about to throw the knife. If Zoolander could stop it with a look, don't you think he'd run in front and... oh."

"Oh, no." 

"That's got to hurt."

Sherlock reached his arm out in front of John to restrain him, as he stifled his automatic response to run to the aid of the man with the knife sticking out of his cheek. 

Sure enough, Mugatu had a bomb and was attempting to exit through the ceiling on... silks. John shook his head. Sherlock dialed the bomb squad. Little did the villain know Lestrade's team had helicopters at the ready.

As he climbed up toward the roof, and occasionally rolled back down artistically, Hansel clamored after him and yelled for Derek to throw him the knife. Which he did. It landed precisely in the center of Hansel's thigh. It would have been comical, were it not for the overly large, highly-decorated bomb that Mugatu held up high and threatened to detonate by throwing it into the deeper recesses of the cave, where the earth opened up to reveal a churning pool of molten lava. 

Sherlock and John looked at each other in utter disbelief that the team could be so thoroughly inept. Sherlock was confident he could find an off switch in mere seconds-- a memory John was none to pleased about having to relive-- provided it wasn't triggered by landing in the extreme heat. Sherlock insisted the angle Mugatu was throwing it would ensure the device landed far short of the lava, so they watched in slow motion as the bomb was tossed. Zoolander tried yet again to freeze the bomb in mid air. Then Sting and Hansel, in a father/son display of unity, joined the struggle. And finally, when it seemed as if they could hold it no more, the final contributor, Derek Zoolander Junior, turned toward it with a look no one had ever seen before. Sharper, fiercer than Blue Steel. 

The bomb glowed like the inside of the matchbox of the Persano case, and was safely guided back to the ground as everyone in the room, including Sherlock and John, stood in awe. 

"Was that-- Did it really just-- "

"The waste dump. We've spent the day at a show on land which was formerly a toxic waste dump. And that hotel was surreal enough to have potentially created a more Dadaesque atmosphere than guests may have been aware of. Caves. Caves have build up of certain... fumes. And jet lag. That's all I have to work with right now. It will have to do."

"But-- "

"Jet. Lag."

John muttered something under his breath about denial being a river in Rome. He was glad to be headed back to Baker Street in the morning. And they'd definitely be staying at another hotel tonight.

****  
Sherlock didn't say a word on the ride back to the Gaga to retrieve their bags, and John had set up a sort of internal mantra to just let it be. He gathered everything, while Sherlock examined a few locations throughout the room. The flower on the desk, the pillow. Then Sherlock removed a small test tube from his bag and filled it with water from the shower to test later, before dumping it out with a sigh.

"Let's go, John. Maybe there's a flight back home within the next few hours; we can try for stand by."

John paused before nodding in agreement. 

Sherlock efficiently exchanged his pillowcase-dress for his standard outfit. He peeked under the edge of the wig and shrugged at John, removing it and attempting to make his hair look remotely presentable. He decided to replace it instead. He eyed the sink menacingly, before going ahead and washing off the make-up. 

Every bone in John's body wanted to just hit the mattress, but Sherlock clearly needed to be back home.


	7. Chapter 7

After the man at the ticket counter had told them the flight was full, but they would be placed on a list just in case, John headed off in search of some reading material, while Sherlock headed over to a mother and her young son. The boy was peering out the window, watching the planes land. Sherlock said something to the mother and the son's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. When John turned back, after realising any reading material he could procure would likely be in Italian anyway, he saw the little boy enthusiastically pulling his mother away from the gate. Sherlock was heading back toward the counter.

John caught up to Sherlock, stating, "I take it two seats are about to magically turn up." Sherlock grinned. Then, after a brief pause he added, "I don't want to know. So long as the kid seems happy."

"Oh, he will be. And she was waiting for a sign to stay. I gave her one. I also considered making a 'subtle' phone call criticizing the aircraft's ability to steer well while still missing that 'optional' part that I don't personally find to be optional, regardless of what some pencil-pushers who don't really know these types of planes might say, and how I am officially washing my hands of the whole matter in easy earshot of that man over there and his traveling companion," Sherlock gestured to a man who was searching for something online and grimacing, pausing to occasionally do a quick scan of the entire airport, "but it might have caused a disruption and grounded the flight entirely. This was the safer option."

"Uh...good? So, I'll just hit the loo before we take off, then."

Sherlock leaned against the window, and John wondered why, when he was the tired one, Sherlock always managed to get the seat that was easiest to sleep in. He decided to rest his head against the softer part of Sherlock's upper arm, avoiding the bony bit of shoulder. They both woke up during the descent.

***  
Sherlock was reveling in everything that seemed London-ish. He even smiled at the very sight of a black cab, determined to put the piece of insanity that was Rome behind him. He looked as if his grip on reality was tenuous at best, and it would be some time before he would decide that the impossible was indeed possible, and therefore truth. John didn't seem  
too put off by it. He had more important things to attend to. Like how to integrate Sherlock's new gender identity into their relationship. He wasn't even sure how to refer to him. He thought about who he could ask for advice and quickly realised the answer was no one. He couldn't mention it to anyone until Sherlock did. It was a surprisingly lonely feeling.

Sherlock turned to face him, looking across the wide expanse of the cab's interior.

"I don't think they would understand. And it doesn't matter. What I mean to say is, at the level of interaction I have with any of them it doesn't matter. It... I guess I thought it wouldn't matter to you either."

"It doesn't matter to me! That's what I keep saying!"

"No. You are saying It doesn't make a difference, not that it doesn't matter. You are claiming to continue to feel the same way about me. No change. But saying that it doesn't matter means," he paused, then turned back to face John. "Means that if I had never said anything... that that would have been fine. It could have stayed as a private thought my entire life. But it does matter to you. You wanted to know. You always want to know these things."

John thought it through. What if he had never known Sherlock's feelings on the subject? Would he have been content to go on unawares? He wanted to think that he would always want to know-- even if it was deeply private, he wanted to think himself worthy of such confessions. But maybe it was more for his own benefit. To be thought worthy. Not Sherlock's.

"Well, it makes very little difference to me. I am the same person I've always been, and I've been thinking these thoughts for as long as I can recall. I didn't even think they were unusual, at first, not seeing the purpose in such _gender distinctions_." He said the words with some scorn. "But I'd be an idiot if I thought it didn't matter to anyone. It belonged in my own head and I kept it there."

"You don't need to."

"Hmmm. It doesn't affect anything. I won't be wearing different clothing, or request to be referred to by other pronouns. Might it not have been better if I had just kept it there? Left people to draw their own erroneous conclusions?"

"Simpler. Not better."

"Nothing as deceptive as an obvious fact."

They were just rounding the corner onto Baker Street when John started up the conversation again. "I really can't imagine any part of you I'd find off-putting in any way."

"You are sorely lacking in imagination."

They exited the cab, John paying the driver, and suddenly wondering if he should change his behaviour in an attempt to avoid seeming chivalrous. He found Sherlock waiting for him, holding open the door to the flat. With the door still partially open behind them, John leaned in to kiss Sherlock softly. "I know-- before you say anything; it isn't necessary, as such. It's just... something I felt like doing."

Sherlock kissed John this time. The same softness, with just a slight bit of a tug against John's bottom lip. _Okay, then. It's fine. It's all fine._ there was a loud click as Sherlock shut the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Pudu and Nightsky for beta help...and to all my readers who gave this one a chance, cracky as it was ;)  
> I'd love to hear from you!


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